


Wouldn't That Be Nice?

by Petyrs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Dubious Consent, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman, WWII AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 06:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2057613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petyrs/pseuds/Petyrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obersturmführer Baelish returns home drunk from a gala. His ward Sansa Stark must deal with the aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wouldn't That Be Nice?

> ** 卍  
>  _Two Hours Prior_ **

     She despised talking to them. For all his faults, Petyr remained far preferable company, largely thanks to  _predictability_. In public most especially, moods and wants were generally anticipated rather well by the officer’s  _dirty little secret_. Schooled in watching her tongue and pretty enough to excuse any minor stumble before an audience, Sansa made an enviable date for any function. Yet Baelish often saw fit to send her off, into the void or with one man in particular, with husky instructions to charm, to not  _embarrass_  him. None of the others engaged in the same practice that she could see, and it would be  _so nice_  to just once stand pressed against his flank,  _pretending_.

     That it was Poland, before the war. That her life was not at risk. That he  _cared_ , in some meaningful way.  _He must_ , Sansa would repeat to herself.  _He wasted his breath and risked his life that night in the alley, when a single bullet would have sufficed. There must be some tenderness in his heart, to shelter me when God and all the rest forsook me_. The man was far from a fool, nor did she believe the simplicity of pleasure to prove persuasive enough in moving the officer from duty to  _charity_ ; something elusive, something personal, something  _raw_  drove he named Baelish to gamble one life for another. Something with _meaning_.

     Instead the girl did as she was bid, taking measured sips of champagne in silken gown and evening gloves between breezy laughs at the jokes of strangers, negotiating abbreviated waltzes, becoming whatever they expected of the ruby-haired vision. And it was not that behavior most militaristic which set her stomach to churning, goose prickles rising beneath every chaste touch. Their  _normalcy_  disgusted Sansa. Never more than a few city blocks distant from the ghetto overflowing with so-called vermin, these men and their paramours guzzled cocktails and spoke on the most  _mundane_  of subjects; were they garbed in tuxedos rather than Germany’s military finery, one would not even suspect them of the evil that carried legions over the once peaceful border. Screen sirens and symphonic accomplishments  _paled_  in comparison to the thousands of starving wretches wailing behind barbed wire.

     In whose number Sansa might linger —- if not for him. And so she cooperated, prowling a more comfortable prison, but captivity all the same. Perhaps it was the warmth of the room, permeating bare flesh chilled by the nipping autumn which chased her from car to threshold; perhaps it was the champagne, replaced without a thought by white-gloved servants. Whatever the cause, her cheeks blushed a flattering rose and her smile widened easily whilst grey-green trailed back time and again, more frequently as the night wore on…

*     *     *     *     *

     Petyr was drunk. Though it was not required for him to muster up the impetus to paw at her hips, trail an open mouth along her throat, and settle between her legs, it certainly made such events all the more likely to come under the inky shroud of those strange hours which lingered between dusk and dawn. “Fancy yourself a  _whore_ , do you?” he growled, rolling until he rested half atop, half beside the girl lying prone. “Inviting all those men into the bed  _I fucking gave you?_ " He might have poured a glass of whiskey on her, so strong was the smell rolling from his mouth. Sansa wriggled, enough to show her fright without chancing his restraint. Sometimes his mood could be turned towards a simpler ardor, if early in the night she learned how best to guide him.

     ”I only talked to them, Petyr. As you bid me to.”  _Impress them on my behalf_. The glimmering, coppery proof of the Officer’s impeccable taste in women and gowns and jewels. She spoke in a thin, breathy voice, devoid of the richness imparted by liquor and tobacco. Silk and lace tangled around her calves: though Baelish had begun to grouse about  _proper bedroom attire_ , the nights remained cool enough for her to stay swathed in stolen finery. It was beneath such a delicately woven garment that his fingers slipped then, past a scalloped neckline to palm a breast in furious possession.

     Stubble left an equally angry rash as his chin dragged over her collar. “As I  _bid_  you, hm?” Questions were dangerous. Questions begat answers, which bred excuses for flares of temper. “It is  _my_  fault you behave like a common  _slut_?” Sansa kept her mouth pressed shut, fingers curled into the sheets as a drowning man might clutch at passing driftwood.  _The only hope left_. Beneath his hand, soft flesh dimpled and rolled, kneaded with a force meant to garner reaction rather than grant pleasure. When still his bed mate clung to stoicism, the Officer turned teeth upon her bosom as well, scraping and suckling along swells of his own making. A wet drag of tongue across her nipple forced a gasp from Sansa, cut off with a capture of lower lip in nervous bite.

     ”I _s it?_ " he demanded again. "Have I  _made_  you what you  _are_?” Prisoner. Vermin. Secret. Lover.  _Whore_. Baelish had used that very term, when first their arrangement was posited in a dim sitting room. All of those things she became in his company, though none of them permeated what Sansa Stark truly  _was_. Pressing an advantage, his hand released its quarry to curl about her ribs, lift the girl closer within his reach. Humidity enveloped peaked, dusky pink, drawing out a muffled groan when he started to suck. “A little wanton, moaning for one of Germany’s most loyal?  _Moan_.” It wasn’t difficult: were Baelish another man, should they reside in some fantastical world where her blood or his recalcitrance mattered not, she might even  _enjoy_  his attentions.

     Sometimes she could still, when Petyr made it easier to imagine that place. Yet he did no such kindness now, scraping over tender flesh, nipping to make her yelp. At last Sansa squirmed, body demanding gentler treatment or none at all. _His excuse_. The arm at her waist shoved further between back and mattress, leveraging them until she could not move for being pinned under his torso. “ _Don’t_.” Sansa nodded, a mere trembling of her head to keep from knocking brows as he craned nearer. “I don’t have to hurt you,” he promised, he lied, tongue slithering out just like the snake he was, flicking over the tip of her nose.

     ”And wouldn’t that be nice?” Between them, Petyr’s unoccupied hand fisted in her gown, pulling up until bare thighs met. Unlike his ward, the man did not suffer troublesome tangles of cotton or silk after so long a night; and in spite of the whiskey, the wine, the champagne toasts, against her leg a hard pillar of flesh came to rest. “Going _slow_?” he breathed, fermented grain washing over her cheek. All the while Sansa had stared forward, first at his arm, then the jut and bob of Adam’s apple. Something prodded between her legs, a finger, its pad a gradual drag along dry lips. Baelish huffed. For a few, blessed moments, silence settled as a dense blanket around them. Her neck, he laved; her bud, he circled. Both acts in tandem, finally seeking to please, to  _incite_ , until he acknowledged with a pleased hum the dewy proof of efforts well spent.

     Weight shifted from one knee to another, hand bringing his cock into pressing alignment with her entrance. Sansa hated this part: not the fucking, but that it did not seem to matter  _who_  lay in a tense line beneath him. She really could be just another Polish whore, or a girl looking to curry favor with the new regime, or his  _wife_. It made no difference. Having  _Sansa Stark_  under his beating hips made no difference. How she wished it did. A little fantasy could gentle the act, the full slide of his cock made with hardly any thought as to the young woman being taken. Petyr groaned, a starving man given his first taste of food. Her eyes squeezed shut, knuckles beginning to burn from their hold on the sheets.

     ”You shouldn’t feel this good. You have  _no right_  to feel this  _good_.” Despite his incredulity, or because of it, Baelish started to move.  _Slowly_  at first, as he had sneered, hunching over his partner with forearms braced to either side of her head. Unaroused and silent, she drew accusations of difficulty, of not being worth the effort. Wet for him, still though she was, and Sansa immediately became  _too_  pleasurable a bedmate. His guilty indulgence, the half-breed whore he tolerated more and more when sober. Accusations always went unanswered, until the risk of silence outweighed her hope to never misspeak.

     Fortitude carried a price, however. Rather than move quickly towards his climax, Baelish ground down onto her, the hard slope of his pelvis threatening to build a pressure she had so stupidly chased one drunken night. “You must know how that feels,” he pressed. “ _When I make you come_.” Sansa could hear the growing edge to his voice, brought on not by lust, but frustration. Too quiet, she was _too quiet_. “ _Yes_.” Like the opening of a tomb sealed for millennia, air rushed out from her lips as if longing to rejoin that from which it came. “Yes I know how that feels.” Blue edged open, into mossy green turned towards malachite, hovering above a mouth gone slack with effort. Just as quickly she looked away, into a pillow, ashamed of whatever weakness drove her to speak. To find _common ground_  with her  _keeper_.

     Petyr, conversely, took a perverse pleasure in her agreement. With a rumble of approbation, he began laboring more intently between her thighs, cock remaining buried as her bud garnered the utmost attention. Selfless, seemingly, were it not for the husky words which paired themselves to a rough tangling of fingers in her hair. “You’re going to. Tonight. We can - ” A grunt cut off his instructions, Baelish stilling long enough to pull back and thrust more deeply into her at a preemptive shudder. When Sansa appeared no more satisfied, only  _tense_ , he returned to more targeted ministrations. ” — We can hate one another.  _As we should_.”

     With a clearer mind she might have taken issue with the implication that they did not bear enmity towards each other, or that he cared whether she adored or despised him. Had Baelish not provided ample reason to hate him? Had she, through her blood, not done the same in turn? Logic, however, was lost to the steady thrum built between her legs, a ruby clouding of the mind that signaled he had already won. All that remained was how much Sansa chose to  _fight_. Surrender held the simpler option in the face of _inevitability_ , though pride rankled.

     More than rankled:  _rebelled_. Lashed out with sharpened teeth until, depleted of all vigor, it began to necrose. A sinking pit in the center of her chest, blackened, decaying, a gangrene of the soul. She should have cut it out long ago: in the alley, that first morning alone, one of any days afterwards. There were linens, fixtures…if only Sansa possessed the  _bravery_. What she suffered now was a result of cowardice, of that there remained no doubt. For what fortitude existed in willfully becoming a _Nazi’s whore_? Bartering for…what, her  _life_? How much worth could it still have, tainted with  _Faustian_  conduct?

     Sheets now, however, tangled about their  _feet_ , Petyr’s digging down into the mattress between hers limply splayed. A droplet of sweat splattered on her cheek, Sansa flinching as though she had been struck. If he perspired, then the man was growing tired; in weariness, his impatience would only grow. Thinking on delays served her not at all by now; they were too involved,  _she was too close_. Atop the mattress fingers twitched and dug, nails gouging fruitless holes in all but his flesh.  _Don’t. Don’t. Don’t_. Relentless chanting, silent, played out across her face; whether he saw and knew, or simply grew restless, Baelish moved faster, abandoning his flagrant grinding for short, sharp thrusts that finally,  _ **finally**  _forced her over.

     Trapped between her tormentor and her pleasure, Sansa’s head tilted back with abject despair, frame shuddering as if beyond any sensate grasp. Muscles twitched and core throbbed: the body, then, achieved sweetest climax. Petyr was, regrettably, not unskilled in intimate acts. Yet no release came to her  _mind_ , thoughts tangled up in the brambles of what he would think of her now, what  _all the rest_  would think of her if they knew, another battle fought and lost so easily. Above her, Baelish groaned. Once she dared think it was satisfaction in her completion, though now Sansa understood it only to be an appreciation of the proof of  _his_  talent,  _his_  inescapable persuasion. Perhaps, in some way, it even felt good. Around his cock. She never bothered to inquire.

     Hardly had calves and shoulders stilled, inner walls gone slack, than he withdrew. Enough to grasp the girl, flip her, yank her hips up towards him as the Officer settled on his knees. One thrust joined them again, and then it was a battering, steady and unrelenting, the sort of unchangeable rhythm pursued for climax alone. Sansa was a convenience, not a temptation; such was the only explanation she could find. Their lie explained away stains and sounds and touches and looks, a cage built up of whispers about the crimson bird. “ _Fuck_.” His pace sped. She wedged her head between two pillows, not enough to drown out the staccato report of flesh slapping flesh which filled the room. This,  _this_  was the worst, treated as no better than his right hand, a more complete way in which to self-pleasure. He didn’t even touch her hair, her breasts this time.

     ”S _ans_  —  _ **Fuck**_.” Whether disturbing familiarity or orgasm cut away her name for simpler exclamation, the girl would never know. As he spoke, fingers clenched new bruises along her hips, forcing her flush and still against him. For several long moments there was nothing but the lewd twitching inside, the relieved panting a short distance above. Then he sat, softening, though no less stiff of posture. Holding her, keeping Sansa prostrate until his spent flesh began to slip free. With a disinterested push, Petyr bid her roll to one side before coming to rest on his back following a far more elegant  _flop_. His outside hand groped blindly at the bedside table, returning with a cigarette and narrow matchbox. A rasp, a hiss, the first indulgent exhale of vapors, and a muted clatter of matches tossed aside. Only then did free digits reach to the other side, dragging Sansa into a sprawl across his chest. This was no remnant of affection, she knew. Men fucked, then they smoked and laid final claim. Choreography strictly followed, nothing more. She found as much comfort in the position as he did. The cigarette had been burned half to ash, his seed nearly dry, before Petyr spoke.

"Did it feel good?" he asked, steel lurking beneath the conversational tone.

Sansa paused, considering herself lost regardless. “Yes.”

"Good."


End file.
